Wicked Restless

I wink at her before I turn to leave. When her door shuts, I take big strides toward the stairwell, deciding this is probably the best route to be sure I don’t run into Emma. There’s a part of me that feels lighter now that I don’t have her license on me, like I’ve gotten rid of this massive obligation. Adding the roommate into the equation was a bigger risk—the entire thing completely happening on impulse—but it also excites me. I need to know more about Emma. It’s curiosity, probably driven by the desire that she’s suffering…in some way.

One date. With a cute girl. Harmless.

I’ll learn secrets, get enough to satisfy things, enough to move on. Then, I’ll let Lindsey down easy.

I rush by the front desk when I make it to the first floor, but I’m careful enough not to draw any more attention from the doorman, who’s still talking with the group of girls from earlier. Once I’ve made it safely a block or two away, I pull my phone from my pocket and send Lindsey a text.

I’m really glad I found that license and ran into you.

I know exactly what my words are going to do to her. And when she sends me back a gushy smiley-faced emoticon, I know it worked. I send her one more message, just to cement everything in place.

Can’t wait for Wednesday.

She writes back quickly that she can’t either. Satisfied, and feeling a little proud of myself, I put my phone back in my pocket and decide to jog the rest of the way back to my apartment. I spend those few miles thinking about the perfect way to work in my questions about Emma. I think about that, and I think about how she looked on that dance floor last night, and in that picture on her ID.

I think about her eyes.

The ocean.

Lake Crest.

I think about the fact that her eyes have found their way back into my mind…uninvited.

Then I think about how good it felt asking out her roommate.

Chapter 7

Emma

“So…it’s a little weird for you to be giving my date a present. I’m just sayin’,” Lindsey shouts from the hallway bathroom. I’m in the kitchen, layering the last batch of oatmeal cookies over the sheet of wax paper I’ve cut to fit perfectly in the tin.

“I know, but seriously, that guy saved me from having to deal with the DMV and lines and mean people,” I say, tucking a short thank you note under the lid before closing it. When she steps into the kitchen, I hand her my gift. “Here…you can just tell him your roommate is a nut, but she’s grateful. It’ll be an icebreaker—seriously, you could spend an hour on the topic of your crazy roommate alone.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lindsey says, her mouth twisted in a one-sided smile.

“You didn’t have to agree so quickly,” I laugh, turning back to our oven to shut everything off.

I don’t have many domestic skills. My laundry remains in the basket when its both dirty and clean, dishes are only done in our apartment because of Lindsey, and forget about vacuuming. I don’t really like cooking, either. But baking—that’s different. When I bake, I get to eat the ingredients along the way. It’s not like I can sample pieces of a casserole while I’m throwing in corn and meat and crap, but chocolate chip cookies? Oh yeah. Oatmeal are my favorites though—it’s the brown sugar. I could eat that stuff by the spoonful.

“Okay, enough about you. How do I look?” she asks, spinning slowly. She’s put a lot of thought into this date—blew out her hair, bought new lip gloss and I’m pretty sure she got a manicure. It’s sweet. She doesn’t go out much, even less than I do, really. It’s part of being a medical student. And I know it’s only going to get worse next year. Lindsey’s studying general surgery, I’m cardiothoracic. I’ve only ticked off three years, so only…seven left.

“You look like a total hottie,” I smile.

“Eeeek, thank you,” she squeals, before running into the bathroom one more time to check her makeup, and dashing out the door in a cloud of Victoria Secret body spray.

I shake my head, smiling at my friend, then move back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up. I run right into my tin of cookies, which stares back at me, forgotten in the midst of my friend’s excitement. I snicker quietly to myself, grabbing the tin after I finish mopping up the stray grains of sugar from the counter. I climb into the worn part of the sofa, the spot my roommate and I both refer to as my corner, raise the remote, and begin my big night out.

It’s the first night in weeks I haven’t been swallowed up completely with biology homework. I intend on watching mindless television until I can’t keep my eyes open, and it looks like I’ll also be making myself sick on oatmeal cookies. Glad I baked my favorites.